


The Want of It

by azrielen



Series: The Hamilton_Ebook Papers [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Looking (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathroom Sex, Congress, M/M, Most of the characters are just mentioned, Politics, Semi-Public Sex, Sorry Not Sorry, The crossover absolutely no one asked for, Yes you read the pairing right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:18:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5563225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azrielen/pseuds/azrielen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick hasn’t ever actually had sex in a club bathroom.</p><p>Part of a series of fics vaguely inspired by <a href="https://twitter.com/hamilton_ebook">@hamilton_ebook</a> tweets:</p><div class="center">
  <p>    <img/><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	The Want of It

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of some sort of aneurysm I apparently suffered while watching _Looking_ for the first time. Oops.

Patrick hasn’t ever actually had sex in a club bathroom. His life up until this point has been made up of a series of close calls in that regard. He knows it’s a thing that people do. He’s taken more than one piss to the soundtrack of two guys fucking on the other side of a flimsy metal wall. 

“Oh, fuck, AH!” This guy is all over him, hands and mouth and teeth, pulling at clothes and skin like he’s starving for it. It’s both less desperate and hotter than it should be. He doesn’t even smell that drunk. Instead he smells like sweat and coffee and tastes like cheap bartop mints when Patrick manages to wrench the guy’s mouth off his neck long enough to kiss him. “Hey. Hey, what’s your name?”

The guys smiles huge, his whole face transforming with it, and Patrick thinks he’s probably older than his energetic dancing lead Patrick to believe. His cock twitches in his pants where it’s rubbing up against the guy’s thigh, and maybe Patrick has a shiny new kink for smile lines. This is a day full of self-discovery.

“Alex,” the guy answers, and kisses him again, bites at his lower lip and gets a hand into Patrick’s jeans.

Neither of them last long, but they last longer than it takes for someone to start banging on the door. Patrick comes all over Alex’s hand and his own t-shirt, panting into Alex’s mouth because they haven’t stopped kissing _the whole time_. They don’t stop even as Alex wipes his hand off on Patrick’s jeans and tucks them both back in. It’s a testament to Alex’s mouth that he doesn’t even care about the pants. 

And then Patrick blinks and the guy is gone. There must have been something more to it than that -- he didn’t just disappear into thin air -- but it feels that way. Patrick didn’t even have a chance to ask for his number, and he would have. He would have called Alex _tomorrow_ and damn whatever bullshit gay etiquette said that was clingy or whatever. Instead he’s left staring at the graffitied wall of a bathroom stall while the door swings on its hinge until he’s pulled forcefully out of it so that the next two guys can have their turn.

Alex is nowhere to be found back out in the club. Patrick scours the room for guys with tanned skin and ponytails and goatees, and there are plenty of them, but none of them are even remotely _Alex_. After the fifth guy with a ponytail and a goatee asks what he’s staring at while glancing at Patrick’s swollen lips, Patrick chalks the whole night up to some sort of Christmas miracle in July and goes to get another drink.

\-----

Eventually, the curiosity becomes too much. “Why are you watching C-SPAN?” 

In the other room, Dom snorts and tosses a piece of popcorn in the air, catching it in his mouth. He doesn’t even know when Dom showed up. Maybe he’s always been there, watching guys in suits looking disinterestedly at some sort of debate from the same three static camera angles for all of eternity. Maybe Patrick needs to sleep more.

“I was channel surfing,” Dom answers. “This little guy is hilarious. He’s been yelling at this Congress guy for like fifteen minutes.”

Patrick smiles a little and goes back to work. He has to finish this proposal before--

“Oh, shit, isn’t that the guy you fucked at Esta Noche the other night?”

Patrick has never shut his computer and run anywhere so fast in his life. 

It is, in fact, the guy from Esta Noche. _Alex_ , he thinks, before he reads the text on the screen. “Secretary of the Treasury Alexander Hamilton Debates Senator Aaron Burr, DR, NY.” Alex is behind the Senate lectern, an impeccably-tailored charcoal suit hugging his slim frame, ranting about something while a dark-skinned man who must be Senator Burr stands to the side looking constipated. According to the captions, which are going a mile a minute to keep up with how fast Alex is speaking, they’re debating a plan to handle the national debt. A few strands of Alex’s ponytail have escaped their tie, likely due to the sheer amount of impassioned flailing he’s doing, and Patrick has the irrational impulse to attempt to reach through the TV and tuck them behind his ear.

“Wow. You jerked off the Secretary of the Treasury in a club bathroom.” Dom sounds kind of proud of him.

Patrick feels like his whole life is a sitcom, and also like he needs to Wikipedia exactly what the Secretary of the Treasury does. He should have paid more attention in social studies.

\-----

The next day, an unfamiliar number sets his phone buzzing against the side of his face at 6 AM. He manages to wipe a little of the drool off the screen before tapping at it until it accepts the call.

“Hello, Mr. Patrick Murray?”

He manages a muffled sleepy noise of some description, which the person on the other end either doesn’t care about or takes as an affirmative.

“This is the US Department of the Treasury calling. We have a secure call for you, if you’ll accept.”

It doesn’t seem like a question, but Patrick manages a, “What? OK, sure.” 

“Thank you sir, please hold.”

There’s a click and an electronic buzz, then a very familiar voice that seemed to have started talking a few seconds before they actually connected. “--lex and I don’t know if you remember me but we kind of fucked in a bathroom at a club in San Francisco a few nights ago and John says it’s too soon to call and that I’m being clingy about it especially since I didn’t get your number oh, John’s my aide by the way I don’t have a boyfriend or anything I mean he’s cute and all but he works for me you know? and yeah so I was wondering if I could take you lunch next week when I’m back on the West coast or maybe just blow you a lot? I kind of really want to blow you.”

Patrick blinks at his phone.

“Patrick? Shit I really hope you’re Patrick and not some--”

“It’s me!” Patrick shouts, way too loud for this early in the morning. “It’s...Patrick.” He takes a deep breathe. “Hey.”

He can practically hear Alex’s smile _through the phone_. “Hey.” Patrick spends a few seconds just grinning at his phone like an idiot before Alex continues. “I hope you don’t mind that I had someone look up your number.”

In that moment, Patrick is almost certain Alexander Hamilton, Secretary of the Treasury of the United States of America, called up the FBI to find his phone number. It’s strangely the nicest thing any random hook up has ever done for him. It’s also somehow _not_ the creepiest.

“I’m OK with lunch and blow jobs next week, but the Secret Service isn’t invited.”

“No?” Alex is clearly trying for disappointed, but it comes out sounding more flirtatious than anything. “There’s some really hot Secret Service agents on the Cabinet detail.”

Patrick rubs a hand over his face and smiles, shaking his head. How is this even a conversation he’s having? “But we won’t be able to fit three of us in the bathroom stall.”

On the other end of the line, Alex laughs. Patrick pictures him in the suit from C-SPAN, at some very official-looking government desk full of very important government papers, laughing about having sex in a bathroom stall.

Alex has to go after that, pulled away by “more Democratic Republican bullshit I swear to god I’m going to strangle Jefferson with his ugly-assed magenta necktie.” Patrick hangs up and stares at his phone for a while, unsure what to do with himself.

He calls Agustin.

“I have a date with the Secretary of the Treasury. Help.”

Eventually Agustin stops laughing and starts believing him, but it takes a while.


End file.
